


The Bright Side

by loyalnerdwp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Empty Nest Syndrome, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:11:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyalnerdwp/pseuds/loyalnerdwp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's got a little case of empty nest syndrome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bright Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barrelrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barrelrider/gifts).



> First of all - happy birthday to my lovely John. May no idiots bother her and no Red Robin waiters sing.  
> Second, thank you to [Amanda](http://detectusconsultus.tumblr.com/) for the idea of what to write for Elizabeth. I blanked, and she reminded me of a topic that Zab and I had actually previously discussed, so I decided to write this: older!Johnlock reminiscing about their kiddo.
> 
> Happy birthday, Zab, and I hope you like it c:

For the first time in nineteen years, a room is very empty. The bed’s made up and the blinds are wide open, closet emptied, shelves already starting to gather dust. The wall’s clear of pictures and posters, small thumbtack holes still present and proving they were previously there. The sight of it all is melancholy, and leaves a resounding ache in John’s chest.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the single bed and looks down at the scuffed wooden floorboards; he makes an attempt to distract himself, and tries to differentiate between marks from his own shoes, Sherlock’s and Hamish’s. It’s pointless, of course - he’s not even sure Sherlock would be able to tell (though god knows he could easily be proven wrong on that). There’s a rather large accumulation of them now, and he wonders how much different it looks under the rug, in the middle of the room. There’s a pattern, of sorts - the wood is more worn near the door, the bedside, and the closet. Less in the middle and by the window, though he’s positive everything has been walked over equally as much. The large sunbeam that glows through the window and forms a rectangle of light on the floor accentuates the light, dullness of the wood - they never bothered to polish the floor. Could hardly be bothered to sweep it most of the time. Perhaps they ought to, sometime.

Not right now, though, or anytime in the near future. Sherlock wouldn’t do it for sure, and John doesn’t have the heart to start cleaning up yet.

It’s not that he’s not happy - god, no, he’s overjoyed. And proud, beyond belief; Imperial College London? It’s fantastic, absolutely. He’s euphoric. But, at the same time...

He shakes his head and curls a hand around one of his knees. He hadn’t thought Hamish’s leaving would affect him as much as it is. Everything had been a rush, exciting, making plans and helping him move in, and then - nothing.

The flat is empty but for Sherlock, and Sherlock is plenty to handle on his own, but it - it isn’t right. To have the place too occupied and too loud and always full of commotion for over nineteen years only to have it all abruptly stop is like having the wind knocked out of John’s chest. Hamish and Sherlock were always talking - arguing, more often than not, but civilly, for sure. Vicious discussions, Hamish had called them, and Sherlock would reply that they wouldn’t be so vicious if people would just accept the fact that he was right. At which point John would tell both of them to sod it, not everyone’s of higher intelligence, and try and viciously discuss what you want to order in tonight.

Those memories bring a brief grin to his face that melts into something more nostalgic, and John wants to pull his knees to his chest and have a sulk for three days; take a turn at being Sherlock. Sherlock would notice, though - John doesn’t sulk. He simmers until the heat’s turned up so high that his anger boils over his head and hits the burner, and then dies down immediately after, heat extinguished. Sulking isn’t his style.

The door’s hinges creak and he snaps his head up, stiffening slightly at the sight of Sherlock and looking back down at the floor, almost shamefully.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” he murmurs. “Scares the living hell out of me every time.”

“I don’t understand that expression,” Sherlock says. “‘The living hell’ - it doesn’t match up.”

“Irony,” John excuses, huffing. He glares up at Sherlock, just a bit. There’s hardly any sting to it.

“I’m sorry for sneaking?” Sherlock tries.

John chuckles softly. “Get in here,” he says, patting the space next to him. Sherlock shuffles awkwardly for a moment, trying to decide between shutting the door and leaving it open, before remembering that either will work, as the flat is empty. That seems to hit him briefly, and then he shuts it anyway, and strolls over to sit beside John.

“It’s pointless to miss him already,” he mentions, after a minute or two has gone past silently.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t,” John points out, slightly bitterly.

“It’ll only be worse later, if you start now.” Sherlock tilts his head at John imploringly but John remains staring blankly ahead.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asks eventually.

“I taught it to myself,” Sherlock tells him. “For the third time now, I think.”

Giving in, John turns to look at him. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock muses. “The first was when my brother left France to come to school in London. It was difficult, as a child, to learn that, but I figured it out eventually.”

“And the second?”

“When I left you here under less than acceptable circumstances,” he says, far more quietly. “That was actually the worst time, having to tell myself that if I let it start affecting me in the beginning - “ He cut off with a slight shake of John’s head, and nodded his understanding.

“And now,” he continued. “Which will certainly be the longest, but not the most painful nor the most difficult.”

“How do you figure?” John asks, voice small.

“Because we did well, did we not?” Sherlock counters. “You’re proud - I’m proud, and that’s rather something.”

“We’ve just sent him off on his own - it’s a big deal,” John returns. “He doesn’t live with us anymore, he’s. He’s an adult. On his own,” he emphasises.

Sherlock smirks. “We’ll still get to see him, John, you act as though it’s a permanent separation. Thirteen minute drive, forty minute walk? It’s barely a hardship.”

“He’ll be busy,” John says.

“All the better. We’ll get to hear stories.”

That coaxes a little smile out of him and Sherlock wraps an arm around his partner’s familiar shoulders and squeezes gently. It’s an easy practise now; just under thirty years of this, and he’s finally got the knack of it all.

“Hopefully none as exciting as yours,” John voices after a bit.

“God, no,” Sherlock agrees quickly. John giggles a bit and a grin spreads on Sherlock’s face. “I don’t think he’s picked up on my particular habit of wandering on to crime scenes under the influence,” he contemplates teasingly. “However, perhaps we would have Mycroft keep an eye on him.”

“No, he’s definitely picked up on your habits involving him,” John chuckles.

“Can you blame him? Mycroft’s terrible.”

“He’s gotten better,” John argues playfully. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You both have, and you know it. Domestic life, it’s dulled you two.”

“Maybe I’ll pick up on a new habit to annoy him. Vandalisation of public property? Just to keep him on his toes.”

“Don’t you dare,” John warns. Sherlock laughs, deep and pleasant, and John’s smile grows.

“He always hated it when I’d draw on his things as a child,” Sherlock continues. “And then there was the time Hamish got ahold of a permanent marker in his office.”

“That one was Mycroft’s fault,” John laughs, “he said he would be fine to watch Hamish, and he was clearly wrong.”

“He’s so used to dealing with more mature Holmes’s, he’d forgotten what a young one’s like.”

“You’re matured?” John asks, faking shock. Sherlock jabs him in the side. “I am genuinely bewildered.”

“Oh, shut it.” John grins and leans into Sherlock’s shoulder, sliding an arm around his waist.  Sherlock brings his other arm up to wrap around John’s shoulders as well, and hugs him from the side, pressing his nose into John’s hair.

A few minutes pass and John says, “Thank you. For coming up.”

“I couldn’t let you brood all on your own,” Sherlock replies. “We both know how that ends.”

“It was once, and I hate you for bringing that up every time I’m in a mood.”

“Be lucky it hasn’t been announced to the Yard,” Sherlock plows through. “Imagine how Lestrade would respond to - “

“Don’t,” John says loudly, trying to speak over him. Sherlock only raises his voice and lets it go a bit sing-song.

“ - knowing you’re a drunk crier!”

“I hate you,” John laughs, shoving him away. “It only happened once.”

“To whom are you defending yourself, John? We’re by ourselves.”

“You aim to hurt my pride daily; I’m defending myself to myself.”

“You poor, lonely man.”

“Don’t you have mould to stare at for twelve hours?” John shoots back.

“It was an experiment!”

“Who are you defending yourself to?” John mocks. That gets an eyeroll out of Sherlock and John knows he’s won, so he cosies back up to him, only to have Sherlock groan and fall back on the bed.

“Hamish hated that experiment,” John remembers fondly. “He always wanted to help you out but couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes.”

“I wanted desperately to tie him to the coffee table, give him a book, and put in a pair of earplugs.”

“That is viewed by many as nearing abuse.”

“Which I find stupid, because I was neither endangering his life nor leaving him without sufficient entertainment. And he knew how to untie knots anyhow.”

“Mm, yes, you spent ten hours teaching him that,” John chuckles.

“It was important,” Sherlock insists. “Who knew what he’d need to know, as our child.”

“Yes, well, he’s never been kidnapped and he can tie and untie his shoes fifty different ways.”

“The highlight of show-and-tell,” Sherlock quips.

“No, that was you,” John recalls. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and glance at him. “And me, I suppose, but all I did was mediate and keep you from insulting his teacher in front of the whole class.”

“He was an imbecile and I still do not approve.”

“Yes, well, luckily you don’t have to. I’m about eighty-five percent sure he got fired.”

“No thanks to me,” Sherlock grumbles, put-out.

“Yes, thank god; the principal already wasn’t fond of you, no need to get one of his teachers in trouble, too. I can assure you they’d have sided with him, not you.”

“I don’t see why - “

“Because you’re a git,” John interrupts. A smirk twitches at the corner of Sherlock’s lips and he sits up, looking down at John warmly.

“And you are an idiot,” he replies affectionately. John beams and leans up, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“Come on,” John says, smiling. “We ought to get dinner.”

“Thai?” Sherlock says hopefully.

A laugh escapes John. “Sure,” he agrees, “so long as you wash up a few dishes and start the kettle.”

“Mm, we really are an old married couple,” Sherlock hums, kissing him again. With a chuckle, John pushes to his feet and grabs Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along.

“Come on, I’ll help you with the tea,” he promises. Sherlock squeezes his hand and lets John lead him out the door, shutting it behind them and remembering that, every now and again, he’s not all that terrible at this comforting lark.

 


End file.
